


ashes in my wake

by celestialtrans



Category: Countdown to Countdown (Webcomic)
Genre: 2015 ctc verse, Angst, Character Study, M/M, Mild Gore, Temporary Character Death, Vomiting, mlm author, more of a character study than a pairing fic but u know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18368303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialtrans/pseuds/celestialtrans
Summary: You don’t pull life from art, you don’t alter reality and weave worlds, and you don’t change fate.Instead, you’ll love him and hope that he falls for your shell.





	ashes in my wake

**Author's Note:**

> title from arsonist's lullaby. i've touched this up a few times here and there but i'm sure there's still mistakes. this is the product of a conversation in a ctc server about lillium having fire powers. it's a little over a year old now and i'm at least 94% sure that the recent updates have directly contradicted this, so it's best to read it as an au. thanks ctc server for the encouragement many eons ago.
> 
> i haven't posted my writing online just about ever, but reading vel's recent updates kinda made me want to put something out. vel if you're out there you're amazing.

Irises are poetic by nature, tragic in a way that many strive to capture, and you think that’s why you know Iris so well. Rather, you think that’s why you want to know Iris so well, because you know—you’re not stupid, after all—that he’s hiding things from you and you don’t know him half as well as you wish. He’s shown you facets of himself and you’re selfish enough to wish for more, to spin him around and around until you’re both sick and you know every piece of him by heart.

He’s smarter than that, though, and he’s pushed back nearly every time, curbing your prying with sharp-witted banter that leaves you reeling and longing for more. Cloaking his vulnerabilities in sarcasm that just barely brushes bitterness, offhanded enough to feel benign. 

Bridging heaven and earth, life and afterlife, Iris is intricate in a way that you are not. It does not stop you from chipping away at the wall between you, holding close every aspect of him, and aching for more.

You wonder if you’re hypocritical for detesting that distance when you’ve been so closed-off.

The thought is hardly entertained before you shake it away. Iris can’t know about you, you’re not like him and there isn’t tragic beauty behind your facades. You don’t pull life from art, you don’t alter reality and weave worlds, and you don’t change fate.

Instead, you’ll love him and hope that he falls for your shell.

 

 

He picks at you, digging at the loose edges and peeling corners, and you try to dissuade him with the lightest hand you can manage. You’re walking a delicate divide, pushing yourself away and pulling him closer, but you’re convinced you can balance a line painted over cracked asphalt.

You know he’s struggling not to ask. You can see it rolling over his jaw when you close the bathroom door to change your bandages, when he rubs his fingertips over the edge of the tape on your wrists and you find an excuse to pull your hands away. He doesn’t, though, and you’re grateful for it, because you don’t want him to look at you for what you are, in his mind.

He doesn’t ask, and then you burn him.

 

 

Iris is everything indigo and splashes of gold, sunbursts shining through a veil and you taste the sparks on his lips. You can feel his lashes against your thumbs, featherlight, you feel his hair sticking to your sweaty palms and you’re nervous, more than you’ve ever been. He smiles, lips curving under your own, and you smile back at him, honest and open and you pull back a bit because you want to see every detail of him.

His face is flushed, eyes wide and you think you can feel his hands trembling a little bit; it’s relieving, knowing he’s just as nervous as you and you open your mouth to tell him so, but your gaze flickers down to his lips and he’s not smiling.

Your chest goes cold, his eyes are wide with fear and he’s shaking because he’s terrified, terrified of you. You stumble back a step. His skin blisters, embers spreading over his face as he falls to his knees, grasping at his burning flesh and hair and he’s red. You stare down at your hands, painfully bright and your tattoos are crawling along your bare skin and you did this, you burned him. Cries, pleas for reason or help or mercy fill the air, the breaks in his voice filled by something like wood splintering and crackling—

When you jolt awake, Iris is standing over you, shaking your shoulders and you barely stop yourself from yanking your gun free of its holster. Chest heaving, your eyes meet in the low light. His are wide, stricken with worry, and you think you’re going to be sick. Your legs are nearly numb, but you manage to stand, almost knocking him over because there’s suddenly very, very little room between the two of you.

“Lillium?” he asks, sounding lost and hurt but you’ve already slammed the bathroom door closed and you can’t hear over the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

 

 

By the time you’re strong enough to stand, your entire body is sore from gagging and dry heaving and acid is burning the back of your tongue. The tap water is freezing against your overheated skin, splashing over your face and dripping astray down your bare chest. You can’t stand to look in the mirror, your bandages are soaked through with water but the very thought of changing them makes your stomach twist. 

Iris is asleep against the wall beside the bathroom door. He startles awake when you open it, blinking up at you in the sudden light, but you don’t look back at him. A low sound escapes him as you walk past, caught somewhere between disbelief and concern.

“Are you okay?” is what he finally manages.

Your hands are burning. His flesh is sticking to your palms like wax.

“Lillium?”

He’s in front of you now, looking down at you where you’re sitting on the edge of your bed. There’s a freckle on his hip and burn scars on his forearms.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Bad water, probably.”

“You were having a nightmare.”

It’s too dark to see any of the brown in his eyes. “Sometimes I get the iodine ratios mixed up, you know, easy mistake to make.”

You don’t sleep for the rest of the night. You don’t think he does, either.

**Author's Note:**

> do not leave me constructive criticism. do not post my works to fic recommendation lists or blogs. do not repost or share my works on other sites.
> 
> yell at me or shoot me requests over on tumblr @celestialtrans


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